


Deception Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

by benedictedcumberbatched



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Captivity, F/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes Alternative Universe, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 13:23:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1348957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benedictedcumberbatched/pseuds/benedictedcumberbatched
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is not the good-natured man Sherlock Holmes believed him to be. Now Sherlock must substitute a friend for an enemy and save Molly Hooper before it's too late. - An AU Fic</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deception Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, the characters are not my own. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC
> 
> \--
> 
> This story is derived from a gifset on tumblr that my dear friend fandomcrazedchick sent to me.

\---

[Gifset that inspired this story](http://benedicted-cumberbatched.tumblr.com/post/78816601379/seducemymindyouidiot-sherlock-au-it-turns-out)

\---

“You’re sure she’s been abducted?” Lestrade called from the doorway of 221B.

“Of course I am. She hasn’t been to work in a couple weeks, she isn’t answering any calls or texts, and I checked her flat, oh do relax I didn’t disturb anything, and there were clear signs of a struggle. She knew her attacker though, the door wasn’t busted open meaning she must’ve opened it for them,” Sherlock rattled off, pacing back and forth quickly, his hands flapping about as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“You’re sure you didn’t just piss her off again and she’s been ignoring you?”

Sherlock turned on his heel and gave Lestrade a look. Lestrade cleared his throat, “Right. Well, I’ll have some men go take a look. If you hear anything, Sherlock, you know to contact me immediately.” Lestrade tucked his notebook back in his pocket and withdrew his mobile. Sherlock listened to the hasty voice barking out orders as Lestrade made his way down and out of the flat.

Sherlock had asked John to be there, give his two bits, but Sherlock figured the doctor was actually being a doctor that day or just couldn’t be arsed to make the effort to come help. Pressing his hands together as he paced, Sherlock tried to make sense of what had happened thus far.

Molly Hooper was missing. He needed her, needed her for various tasks only she, at least in his mind, was capable of assisting him with in the lab. All texts had gone unanswered, and then all phone calls. Finally, Sherlock decided enough was enough after two weeks of being ignored and went to get to the bottom of it. He started with Mike, who told him he hadn’t seen her in just as long. Concerned but deciding showing it would only take up time, he grabbed a cab and gave Molly’s address. The door to her flat had been closed. He stood for five minutes knocking relentlessly before choosing to pick the lock. That was when he noticed the state of her flat.

The coffee table had been broken, a mug shattered on the floor some feet away. She must have thrown it at her attacker. A chair had been tipped over, and then kicked aside. Whoever had taken her was trained. Not touching anything, Sherlock had continued to take in the disaster that was Molly Hooper’s flat.

Inhaling sharply as he heard footsteps coming up the stairs, uneven, heavy, John, Sherlock withdrew from the mental image and turned. “About time you got here. Molly’s missing. Abducted by the looks of it,” he said throwing himself into his chair.

John paused in the process of undoing his jacket. “Abducted? What makes you think that and not that she’s just ignoring you again?” he finally said as he hung up his jacket and sat in his chair. Did everyone seriously think he had said something to Molly that unintentionally hurt her again? He thought he was doing much better.

“Of course I’m sure,” he repeated for the third time that day. “I went to her flat and checked. There were signs of a struggle but she knew her attacker as the door wasn’t kicked in or anything that would show signs of forced entry,” he reiterated in a bored tone.

A rustling of a newspaper brought Sherlock out of his train of thought as he turned. “What are you even doing here anyway? I thought you had to do that working thing.” Sherlock asked.

A heavy sign came as the newspaper was lowered. “I was at work. Which is why I ignored your texts. But as always, you said to come so here I am.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes briefly, turning the words over in his mind. “Anyway, as I was saying, Molly is missing and I need your help. Who, aside from us, is in Molly’s life?” he asked, getting to his feet in a rush before resuming his pacing.

John sighed heavily and set the newspaper aside. “Why? You think I know everyone in Molly’s life? Look,” he said getting to his feet and stopping the detective in his tracks by gripping Sherlock’s shoulders. “The only people I know of are you, me, Greg, Mike, and maybe she has a few friends from the rest of the hospital, I’m not sure.”

Sherlock turned out of John’s grasp, his hands steepled beneath his chin. “Right. I’m going to go for a walk while you pine after Molly Hooper.”

Sherlock distantly heard the door close. Pine after? He didn’t pine after anyone. Molly was just Molly. She was small and quiet but she was intelligent, someone Sherlock considered the best in her field, which was why he chose to work with her over the other pathologists at Bart’s, attractive…Sherlock’s thoughts came skidding to a halt. _Attractive? Molly?_

Shaking his head and went over the facts again and again. Someone she knew. As far as he knew she had no family remaining and what friends she did have she wasn’t overtly close to them. The key to whoever had her was in her flat. Rubbing her forehead, he grabbed his coat and scarf before bolting out the door.

\-- **Two Weeks Later** \--

“No, no, no, no, NO!”

Sherlock threw the slide across the lab. He had been running tests on anything and everything he could find in Molly’s flat for the last two weeks and nothing had begun to point him in the direction of her abductor. He refused to think of the alternative, no matter if Lestrade had begun to move on from the case as his own caseload became too much to bear.

The lab used to be a place where Sherlock could work and actually get things done. But now, four weeks after Molly had gone missing, the lab was just a constant reminder of his pathologist. His hands swiped the papers from her file off the counter and onto the floor. She flooded every single nook, cranny, and dust particle of his mind palace. He had had her secluded to one room but as the days and weeks wore on, she began to seep out, a slow trickle like a leaky faucet, sneaking up on him when he least expected it until, like a flash flood, she filled every space that hadn’t already been claimed. The lab was just like his mind palace now. A place of disorder and destruction, self-destruction more like. Every time the door opened his head shot up in hopes that the shorter woman with long brown hair, big brown eyes and colorful clothing would appear. But she never did. He could still hear her laughter, the nervous tinkling in her voice when she spoke to him, intimidated yet attracted.

Rubbing his hands down his face, he got up from the stool and began picking up the papers. As he swept up test results and crime scene photos, he stopped short, and sank back on his heels. Pushing papers aside, he withdrew the elemental analysis of a residue that had been found in the splintered wood of Molly’s coffee table. The pieces were starting to fall into place but Sherlock still didn’t know who was behind it.

Closing his eyes, he tried to push against the flood that was Molly Hooper to get to his geography room. There was something familiar about all the components in the analysis. Sagging with relief against the door, Sherlock got to work staring at a map of London. He was certain she was still in the city; it was just narrowing down where exactly.

Sherlock stared at the map, his eyes darting from one corner to the other. The only thing that didn’t make sense was…

“Oh!” Sherlock’s eyes opened. He quickly shoved the remaining papers back into the folder before grabbing his coat and running out the door. He waved down a cab and gave the driver the location.

It really was the best place to keep someone hidden away. Bit cliché really but with the amount of noise around the place, it would make a good place to hide the sounds of screaming or someone calling out for help, as much as Sherlock really didn’t want to think about it. Pulling out his phone he quickly texted Lestrade and John.

**Millennium Mills in Silvertown. Get there. –SH**

Sherlock stared out the window, watching as the Thames went by. He was feeling jittery, on edge perhaps at whether or not Molly was really at the abandoned mills or not. He knew like anyone that had been paying attention that the mills were up for redevelopment but nothing had gotten underway yet, other than the gardens done for the Olympics. All the elemental evidence he had found pointed to the place but the fact remained that she may not still be there or if she were, that she wouldn’t be in great condition.

His head turned as sirens screamed past. At least Lestrade was still listening to him about the case. Sherlock paid the cabbie as they stopped just outside the police line and got out.

“Why here?” Lestrade asked as he let Sherlock in.

“Why not? You’ve got the sound of the river, the planes going overhead from London City Airport. Besides, it’s abandoned, what better place to keep someone you don’t want found easily?” he shrugged.

“Right. Once we get inside I want everyone to spread out. Search the lower floors, as they’re the least likely to have gaping holes in them. If anyone finds something or if you find Molly Hooper, I want you to radio in,” Lestrade instructed before nodding to the man holding bolt cutters and cutting off the lock to a fairly new looking chain. Sherlock’s eyes followed it as it clattered to the ground. Now was not the time to look at it for any fibers or fingerprints.

Sherlock set off on his own, holding his small flashlight up to light the way. It wasn’t necessarily an easy place for the homeless to hide out in but it seemed like, judging from the disturbance of dust and debris from the upper floors that had fallen down, there had been people there recently.

He didn’t understand nor could figure out why anyone would want to take or harm Molly. Sure, he had underestimated her time and time again; religiously beat her down in front of others, but was that for her protection or his?

Sherlock swung the beam of his light around, back and forth, looking for any sign that she was still there. He paused in the doorway to what looked like an old storage room for sacks of flour when the place had been a flour mill. The light had caught something and Sherlock hesitantly took steps toward it.

The silver of handcuffs shone back at him and slowly moving the beam of light, he saw whom they were attached to.

“Molly…” he breathed, unsure exactly what the tightness in his chest meant but he couldn’t think of that now. Hurrying over to her, he knelt down and gingerly grabbed her wrist, avoiding the raw skin and blood that was stuck there. She still had a pulse but it was faint. “Molly, wake up. Open your eyes for me,” he said, pushing her hair back from her face to look at her better.

Her hair was dirty and lank, as it would be after a month of not being cleaned, her skin was caked with blood and dirt, her cheek had a few cuts on it, characteristic of being pistol whipped, particularly judging by the bruising that had formed around the cuts. One of her eyes was swollen shut and her lips were cracked. But there, barely discernible, was a small puncture wound in her neck. “Molly…please…” he pleaded, giving her arm a gentle shake. But she still wouldn’t move.

“Molly…Molly…Molly…” came a familiar voice from behind him.

Sherlock spun around, the light from his flashlight illuminating the shorter man. “John. You’re a doctor, help her,” Sherlock said pointing at the prone woman.

“You see, I already have. She’ll be much happier soon.”

Sherlock looked at John in confusion. “John, I don’t understand.” How had he not seen this? Was this a one off thing or was John working for someone?

“Two simple words, Sherlock. Fooled. You.”

Sherlock looked at the man warily before taking two slow steps toward Molly before sinking down to his knees beside her, protecting her from further harm.

Gone was the man Sherlock knew as John Watson. He didn’t know who this man was or what his endgame was. The betrayal he would feel later, something he could demand Mycroft to dig up about the former Army doctor. That much of John’s life Sherlock did know was true.

Sherlock’s fingers wrapped around Molly’s wrist again, his fingers were barely able to find her pulse. “What did you give her? I saw the puncture wound. Aside from restraining her and starving her, what did you give her?” Sherlock asked, doing his best to buy time.

“I know you brought Lestrade and the Yard here,” John said, drawing out his gun and leveling it with Sherlock’s head. “You really shouldn’t have done that.”

“I’ll ask again, John, what did you give her?”

“You’re the great consulting detective. Work it out.”

Sherlock looked back down at Molly and took a deep breath. “Obviously whatever it was, was not enough to kill her, at least not immediately. So you wanted to knock her out. But why take her in the first place? No, focus…” Sherlock began, trying to focus on how to help Molly. Head down, his eyes scanned over her, looking for any other signs that could help him. Turning her arm carefully he felt his stomach drop. The puncture wound in the neck was a decoy, something perhaps John had used to incapacitate her. The real culprit was the one in the crook of her arm. His mouth suddenly felt like it had been filled with cotton. “Of course…” he murmured. He had the same marks on his arms too, healed over with time but always present and a reminder of the lowest point in his life. “You knocked her out, with what I won’t be able to tell until I get her to a hospital and they run tests, so she wouldn’t fight you when you injected her with what I’m guessing is heroin.”

“Very good, Sherlock. It’s a shame though, that now you know what I used on her, I’ll have to kill you so you can’t tell Lestrade.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Dr. Watson.” Sherlock looked up and felt relief wash over him. He had never been so glad to be able to text accurately without anyone noticing before.

John turned his head toward Lestrade, a wicked smile spreading across his face as he made to pull the trigger. Sherlock curled over Molly as a gunshot rang out.

\-- **Two Weeks Later** \--

Sherlock paced outside the hospital room door. He hadn’t been back since they had first brought her in and once she had been stabilized, he had left. He knew John was still in the hospital somewhere, handcuffed to the bed after having a bullet pulled out of his leg. At least now he would have a non-psychosomatic reason to limp. Sherlock hadn’t made the effort to interrogate John. He didn’t know why the man he had classified as a friend had taken the pathologist, but now that was water under the bridge. Besides, Lestrade would likely let Sherlock know or allow him to listen in on the interrogation as soon as they were able to move John to a cell and hopefully get John to talk.

All that mattered now was making sure Molly was okay. Surprising to him, she had marked him down as her emergency contact so the moment they had managed to get her system clean of the drugs John had injected her with and ensured there would be no lasting damage, they had called him. Again, he hadn’t gone to her bedside. He couldn’t think of what to say to her that would make this any better. He wasn’t good with sentiment and feelings and knowing Molly, he was sure there were going to be plenty of them.

But then she had woken up and had demanded to see him before giving her statement to Lestrade.

“Oh for gods sake, Sherlock! Just go in there already!” Lestrade called out exasperated by the detective’s incessant pacing.

Sherlock stopped and knocked on the door sharply. “Come in…” came the hesitant, small voice.

Sherlock slipped inside and closed the door behind him before Lestrade could make any comment. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he approached her bed. She looked too small for the bed, his eyes traveling down her face with it’s yellowing bruise to her wrists wrapped in crisp white bandages. In the crook of her left arm however were intravenous tubes providing her with fluids and such until she could begin eating solid foods again. They were getting there though, according to the doctors caring for her. Her right arm on the other hand, had a piece of gauze taped down covering the mark they now shared.

“You can sit you know,” she said with a small smile. He started before hastily sitting in the chair beside her bed, hands removed from his coat and fingers tapping against the armrest. “Before you say anything, this isn’t your fault.”

Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to look at her. No matter what she said, it was his fault. He should have seen John Watson for who he was and never introduced him to Molly. “Sherlock stop it. I know you’re blaming yourself but just stop it,” she said, reaching out and stilling his fingers with her hand. Sherlock only then looked up at her.

Despite the bruises and cuts on her right cheek and her still cracked but healing lips, she was still the same, strong Molly he was used to.

Swallowing hard, he nodded shortly. He turned his hand over under hers and studied her fingers as he spoke. “How are you feeling?” he asked, feeling it necessary to stick to the social norms even though one look at her told him all he needed to know.

“I’m doing better. Should be able to have solid-ish food in a few days. Probably soup. The-the detox is going well, all things considered. Do you know why…?”

“No. I don’t. I haven’t spoken to him since…since you’ve been here. Nor has he said anything. Frankly, I don’t really care why. I just…I just want you to get better and out of here,” he said, his fingers running along the blue veins in her hand. He carefully, mindful of the tubes in her arm, raised her hand to his lips. “I’m not good with this sort of thing, but while you were missing I had many thoughts about you and what you are to me in my life. I truthfully could not stop thinking about you and the longer I couldn’t find you, the worse it became. But seeing you there on that dirty floor really threw everything I had been thinking about for the past month into sharp relief. Molly, you do matter to me, a great deal, probably more than I could ever put into words. I’ve got some people working to repair your flat for when you get out of here. However, if you get out of here before the repairs are done I…”

A light blush covered Molly’s cheeks as she squeezed his hand, stopping him. He raised his eyes to hers. “I don’t even know if I can go back there. Plus, I’d been thinking of moving out of that flat anyway.”

“I’ve got a vacancy,” he laughed weakly.

Molly laughed a little and Sherlock felt himself relax. “If that’s your way of asking me to move in with you for a bit until I get sorted then I accept your kind offer.”

Sherlock leaned forward and quickly pressed his lips to hers.

The door swung open without so much as a knock and Sherlock jerked back. “Molly I really need your…” came Lestrade’s voice before he realized what was going on. “Right it can wait…”

“No, Greg, it’s fine…” Molly’s voice squeaked, eyes flitting between Sherlock and Lestrade. “Sherlock, stay?” she asked.

He nodded before giving up his seat for Lestrade and moving around to sit on the edge of her bed. “I know this might be difficult but if you could start from the beginning,” Lestrade instructed, watching Sherlock’s attentiveness to Molly all the while. Perhaps this was what she needed to heal. Perhaps it was what they both needed.


End file.
